I pull myself together. ‘I don’t know if it’s for me anymore,’ I say honestly as I get into the lift, ‘but thanks.’

I walk onto the ward for my solo round, still grinning. It isn’t that funny, but the irony amuses me. What is it the French say? L’humour est la politesse du désespoir. Humour is the politeness of despair. Regardless, I enjoy the politeness; laughter has been somewhat lacking in recent times.

‘Dr Prince is back from New York,’ a nurse informs me. ‘He wants to do a round.’

Despite everything that has transpired, I feel butterflies flapping around in my stomach as I walk into the nurses’ station. He’s staring at the patient board. I clear my throat.

He turns around, and the butterflies start whirring their wings more frantically. I can’t believe, after everything I now know about surgery and surgeons, that he still has this ridiculous effect on me.

His eyes are grey today, I notice, as he pulls off his scrub cap absentmindedly. ‘I’m sure I have another patient I’ve forgotten,’ he tells me. ‘I must still be on New York time.’

‘Sounds pretty fun to me.’

We both grin.

‘Oops, sorry!’ I remember. ‘I’m meant to say tjena!’

He looks thrilled. ‘How was Lund?’

‘It was great,’ I tell him, sitting on the edge of the desk next to him. ‘Wolfgang and Tomas were fantastic.’

‘You know they’re coming out here in two months or so. They’ll be in Sydney for a few days before we go to this conference in Fiji.’

‘I know,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve invited them over for dinner.’

He looks surprised. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

‘Tomas had me over for dinner,’ I explain. ‘I can’t cook as well as he can, but I promised them I’d give it a go.’

He nods and doesn’t say anything. I take in his face, the grey-blue eyes and the half-smile, the wrinkles etched into his temples, not quite covered by short brown hair. I want to tell him everything—about what I overheard in the theatre change rooms, about Wolfgang and Nicole, about Estelle. I want to get to know him, properly, away from the operating theatre and the neurosurgical ward. But I can’t think how to begin. So I ask him which patient he wants to visit first, and the round begins.

We walk to bed 3, and he talks to Mrs Jackson about how she’s feeling. I check the obs chart. Stable.

He turns to me, closing the curtain behind him. ‘Did you cross the bridge?’

‘Sorry?’ I’m still recording Mrs Jackson’s respiratory rate.

‘The bridge between Denmark and Sweden,’ he says. ‘Wolfgang has told me it’s beautiful.’